


Bells of War.

by ohimonfire



Series: Interwoven [1]
Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 17:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18945415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohimonfire/pseuds/ohimonfire
Summary: "One last eulalia, and into history we march."; At the brink of an impossible battle, a badger lord and a colonel of the Long Patrol share quiet moment and reflect. From the Interwoven series.





	Bells of War.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the beginning of a series of short stories that I've been writing for a while now. Taking place a good while after any of the books, it chronicles the story of Mossflower over several seasons as it undergoes a radical shift from the Mossflower of the books to a new, more...modern, I suppose you could say, world. Not modern in the sense of technology etc. but modern in ideas. Basically, the main issue I always had with the books is that the world seems so static at times. Nothing ever changes— it's always Redwall and Salamandastron against the vermin hordes. Woodlanders versus the vermin. So the question I'm asking is how does that change? Does it even change at all? This one is set at the beginning, and gives insight into a few key characters and their motivations in the series, but also functions as an homage to that very Redwallian trope of heroes fighting seemingly impossible battles. The books always portray the battles themselves, but rarely take a moment for their characters to stop and reflect. This is one of those quiet moments that are all too criminally left out. Note that you won't see the actual battle, but I've put in a few subtle clues as to what happens, both in the battle itself and in the world after it. Of course, the next story will reveal all that anyway, but it's one that I haven't written yet.

_My dearest friend,_  
  
_I pray these words find their way to you in these dire times. The hordes gather, teeming below us like the rising tide. These storied walls have held fast against their furor thus far, but I fear that their next assault shall be our last._  
  
_I know not whether I shall yet be drawing breath by the time this sparrow reaches your halls. And still, I find myself only able to write words of comfort and distant dreams. The words of an old, vain fool perhaps, but necessary words all the same. For it is in the direst of times, I think, and the darkest, that the light of hope burns brightest. Hope. A beautiful thing. A beautiful word. And yet it is one that I find myself repeating all too often these days, such to the effect that it is becoming a word that now begins to lose all meaning. Hope, I say to the brothers and sisters, when fire and death rain down from above. Hope, I tell the little ones, while they stand by and watch as their brave fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers are laid to rest. Hope, I reassure myself, in the dark and lonely hours of the night when even my resolve begins to waver and the heart feels the cold grip of desperation._  
  
_But what do we have to hope for, in times such as these? Is there anything at all? I think so, dear Urthstorm. I think so. Survival, surely, but also this: that whether it is this day or the next that is to be our last, whether we live or die, it is not the end— that death’s red tide shall one day subside, and from the ashes, like the forest following the fire, the world will be born anew. Though at times the sun may seem to die the night shall not last forever. It is for this that we must hope. That barbarity of the ilk we face today shall not and never shall extinguish the spirit of this great Wood._  
  
_The whole of Mossflower stands on the brink. It is for us to keep it from falling over the edge._  
  
_Father Rodolphus,_  
 _Abbot of Redwall._

* * *

  
The fires set by the horde below raged along the foot of the mountain in silent furor. Urthstorm gazed at the sea of flames in silence from the peak of the mountaintop. The songs of war drifted listlessly up from the bowels of the earth— metal striking metal as hammers clashed against the anvil, shouts of determination as warriors steeled each other for battle, and that grim resolve that always seemed to appear at times like these, hanging not quite like a sound and yet as tangible as any musical note all the same.  
  
“M’lud.” A hare stepped up to his side with a casual salute.  
  
“Colonel Highwater.” Urthstorm turned to acknowledge him with a nod.  
  
“Quiet night, wot. Gives me the flippin’ jitters.”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
Highwater surveyed the horde at the foot of the mountain. “I’m almost impressed. They’ve bally well managed t’raise the whole o’ Vulpuz.”  
  
“My father used to say that this mountain would fall only when the stars, too, fell from the sky and set fire to the sands below. There are moments I fear that perhaps that day has come.” Urthstorm paused, returning his gaze to the dunes below. “I have ruled this mountain for nearly twenty seasons, guarding the shores of Mossflower from all manner of death and destruction. And yet those twenty seasons now seem like a lifetime, an era of peace that may never return.”  
  
“Calm b’fore the bally storm, eh, sah?”  
  
“I am afraid so. And we stand now in the eye of that very storm. The worst, I fear, is yet to come.”  
  
“We’ll weather the blighter,” said the colonel. “Give ‘er the ol’ one-two, dontcha know?”  
  
“Aye,” Urthstorm replied, nodding slowly. “I hope that you are right.” He paused, eyes drifting up to the stars. “Hope.” He laughed, shaking his head. He turned to Highwater. “’Tis a funny thing, hope. And yet it is all we have left.”  
  
The hare grinned back at him. “Hope, steel, an’ blood ’n’ vinegar, sah. Sounds like more’n enough to me, wot.”  
  
“Blood and vinegar, indeed, Colonel.” Urthstorm laughed again. He looked at Highwater with a smile. “Thank you, Clarence.”  
  
“What for, sah?”  
  
“For standing by my side. Now, and every time before.”  
  
“Always, m’lud.”  
  
“We may not get another quiet moment like this in the coming days, I think. No more time for goodbyes.” Urthstorm sighed. “We have grown old together, you and I. We had a dream, ever since we were dibbuns stealing the pies from the kitchens and hiding with our spoils in the basement. Do you remember it?”  
  
“Aye.” Highwater nodded. “To create a shining new Mossflower, free from the threat of warlords 'n’ pirate scum. For woodlanders an’ innocent vermin alike.”  
  
“I am afraid we may not live to see that dream come to pass.”  
  
“We’ll show these rotters wot’s wot, m’lud. Send ‘em scurrying back to Vulpuz with their tails between their flippin’ legs, wot.” Highwater grinned at the badger lord. “And if not, we’ll take as many as we jolly well can there with us.”  
  
Urthstorm smiled. “Like the old poem. 'For us, there is only the final hurrah. One last eulalia, and into history we march.'”  
  
“One last good eulalia,” agreed the colonel. “I could bally well live with that.”  
  
Urthstorm held out his paw. “Tomorrow, or in the Dark Forest, my friend.”  
  
“Tomorrow.” Highwater grasped Urthstorm’s outstretched paw. “We’ll have a drink to celebrate. It’s been an honor, sah. Absoballyflippinlutely an honor.”  
  
“Likewise. Now, go and rally the Patrol. We have a long day ahead of us."  
  
Highwater nodded and sped off into the depths of the mountain after a final salute. Urthstorm once again turned to gaze at the fires below. From somewhere below, a bell rang in the quiet mumur of the night.  
  
“One last eulalia,” Urthstorm muttered. “Like my father and his father before him. Such is the fate of a badger lord.” He breathed a long breath, closing his eyes. “Such are my dreams of late. ‘The bells of war will toll, and your blood shall spill on the sand.’” He smiled and shook his head. “And on that earth, a new world will dawn. I can only hope that it is the world I dreamed of in my youth.”  
  
With one last look to the stars, he turned and stepped back down into the mountain. 

 

* * *

  
_Rodolphus,_  
  
_Stand tall, my friend, in death or in life— however this letter finds you. Stand tall and we will stand with you._  
  
_I have little else to say because there is little to say. So I leave you with this, a poem left by one of the lords of this mountain long ago:_  
  
Where there is fire, there is blood.  
And like a bloody fist, the sun shall settle in the sky  
  
As ringing steel calls the dawn.  
The song of war is pealing in the dark,  
  
The song of a new world—  
A world we will never see.  
  
For us, there is only the final hurrah.  
One last eulalia, and into history we march.  
  
_Tomorrow, a new world awaits. May it be the world we longed to build._  
  
_Urthstorm the Sage,_  
 _Lord of the Great Mountain by the Sea, Defender of the lands of Mossflower Wood._


End file.
